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It Could Have Been Silk:
A Remembrance of Maria Louisa Penn Newman
by Michelle Davidson Argyle
Peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high; thou shalt triumph over all they foes. —Doctrine & Covenants 121:7-8
The crowning of Victoria, my body held high in my mother’s arms so I could see, she whispering softly that I should never forget this moment, and I never have. It has been passed down to my children, retold until relations so far down the line do not even know their connection with my life and influence. Hannah Brookwell, my mother, and I, mother to Emily, who has written me into history.
When we reached America, I felt I would never forget those six weeks on the water with eight hundred and fifty-six saints who had chosen their religion and were ready to endure anything to remain faithful. Before we reached land, I must have checked my bags fifty times to make sure my Welch flannel was still where I had left it . . .
“I have found you the most beautiful silk,” Henry sighed after kissing me and placing his hands around my waist. “It will make the perfect dress—a new dress before we leave for America.” The shop window displaying the silk was so spotless I felt I could have reached my hand through the glass and run my fingers through the fabric. I could feel that silk, sewn up in a flowing skirt and fitting bodice, sliding soft against my body like a cool night on hot skin. I could see myself in that silk, could see my children’s eyes sparkle when they caught sight of their mother reflecting light so delicately they would never let her image fade in their minds. I glanced at Henry and saw the light in his eyes grow as smooth and slow as that new silk. To see his face when he saw me in that dress was so tempting I almost pushed my inward foreboding away. “What is the matter?” he asked. “Don’t you want the silk?”
On the ship heading to America, I checked my bags one more time. The flannel was not silk, but flannel—the best flannel made at the time. It was so thick it seemed to be mocking my memory of the silk, and I fell to my knees near the open luggage and spilled my hot tears into the material. I felt my choice grinding against the cold demands of my heart. That I should listen to something deeper than my want was something I was learning to accept, and it was something I would have to continue learning for the rest of my life; it was the very heart of my faith, and the very reason I was on that ship sailing to the cold shores of America.
Henry and I had sent money ahead to America in order to secure oxen and provisions for our journey across the Plains. By the time we reached Iowa City, I was ready to begin our journey, flannel and all. Our oxen, unfortunately, were not what we had paid for. Instead of accustomed to the yoke, as were promised they would be, they had never been broken. I remember Maria’s hand in mine, tight and hot as the oxen were being secured to their yoke. When they started to stampede, I felt my own fingers tightening around my daughter’s. “This will never do,” I choked as flour and other provisions began flying in all directions. Later, on the Plains, I remembered that flour falling to the ground like snow, settling like the hunger in our stomachs, each snowflake a threat to our limbs already suffering from too much weight.
By the time we headed out, the snow was building itself higher and higher on the ground like the endless piles of clouds in the sky. Darkness never seemed to leave; it was sifted finer than the snow,—so fine it found its way into my limbs, into my fingers and toes, elbows and knees, ears and nose. This was when I decided to use the flannel. Maria, Henry, and Priscilla, my three babies, were complaining of the cold, so I began to sew. I made gowns and loose frocks, and had the three children cover their feet and hands with any extra flannel.
The oxen began to fall. Henry was as exhausted as those beasts, but along with the other men, he would go ahead of the carts and animals and trample the snow down to harden it as a path. I remember his solidness against snow, his darkness sinking into white, then coming up again to pound with his feet, harder and harder. He and the other men were as resistant as any machine, and when they returned each time, Henry collapsed next to me, his breath so cold it seemed to grip the warmth from my own lungs. But the oxen continued to fall, and one evening, Maria came to me and buried her face in my arms. “He’s got his gun,” she wailed. “Father took his Colt and he’s going to kill him.” I smoothed her hair and asked her to explain some more, but she only continued to wail. Five minutes later Henry fired the Colt. “The wolves!” Maria cried. “They were eating the ox that fell, and Father had to kill him because he was still alive!”
It was when I was close to labor with my fourth child that Henry confined me to the wagon box. “You can’t be walking in your condition,” he whispered while placing a blanket beneath my head. He kissed me and apologized that I was not allowed to lie down since there was not enough room. My legs grew so cramped I almost forgot they were there during the birth of my child. Henry placed her in my arms soon afterward, and I held her close, allowing her warmth to seep into my cold arms, knowing her warmth was my warmth, and that the winter surrounding us could not defeat or bury the intense emotion I felt for her smallness next to mine. She died a few hours later in my arms. Henry told me to hold her until he was finished digging the grave. The ground was so frozen I could hear each shoveling sound ring through my nerves, each one more frozen and harsh than the other. Each one seemed to steal my daughter’s warmth from my arms. Each one opened my veins wider to the want of fire, anything warmer than the violent death surrounding my heart. I would not mind if I were burned by fire, but to be burned by ice was unbearable. I felt the emptiness when Henry took my daughter from my arms and placed her in the shallow grave he had worked so hard to dig. The emptiness was ice, and it has never melted. I still feel it in my glance back to the grave as we moved onward with the train of carts and saints. I still feel it in the wolves’ hungry eyes, their half-starved bodies showing the curves of ribs through matted fur as they began to dig at the small mound of freshly churned snow and earth.
I don’t think about silk anymore. The bolt of flannel Henry bought me instead of the silk kept my three children from frostbite; they were the only children in the company who did not suffer from the burning of ice. We arrived in Salt Lake City on the evening of December 13th, 1865, twenty-eight years after my mother lifted me above her shoulders to see the coronation of Queen Victoria.
[Michelle writes, "This is a piece of creative non-fiction, my real love of prose. It is based on a journal entry of one of my ancestors (I'm not sure about her exact relation to me). I am soon going to expand this piece and work seriously on some others about my ancestors."]